


This is where it gets complicated

by BillyTheSkull



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:23:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BillyTheSkull/pseuds/BillyTheSkull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets a strange man at Sherlock's grave, and that is basically where the confusion starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is where it gets complicated

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much, not to say anything about holograms. Don't stone me.

Sherlock Holmes. His best friend. Was. Dead. It had taken him several days to realize what this meant, and even now, standing at the actual grave, John couldn't quite believe it. Sherlock had always had the last word, he always had had a plan. John doubted this would have been an option Sherlock had considered when he and Moriarty were on the roof - committing _suicide_ just never was his style. As John had told Irene Adler once - Sherlock would outlive God to have the last word. He just couldn't be dead now.

Facing Sherlock's grave stone was worse than John had expected. It was simply black, shiny polished, with Sherlock's name on it in golden letters. There was no birth date and nothing like a "You'll be missed", which always had annoyed John on other people's graves. He hadn't really paid attention when it came to the design of the grave, now there was no patch and it seemed very lonely on the wide grave yard, also there were no graves closer than ten metres. John wasn't sure if that was good or bad. The only time he'd been on a grave yard before was when his aunt died, and her grave had been way too fancy to take it as an example for Sherlock's.

John cleared his throat. He wanted to say so much, but this was harder than he had imagined. He took a deep breath. "Sherlock... You were the best, and the wisest man... that I've ever known." He knew he couldn't take any more, so he made the attempt to turn around and walk away, but there was still something else. "One more miracle, just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead" John's voice broke and he covered his eyes with one hand. His best friend's death hit him with all its force again. He clenched his fists, then took a step forwards and touched the black stone carefully, like a pat on the shoulder. Then he almost fled to the waiting taxi.

He went back to 221B, but needed much longer for the stairs than usually. He didn't want to see the empty flat again, but he didn't have any other place to go and still his entire stuff up there. Standing in the door, he looked around. The flat looked like always, the sun had come out and threw a soft light through the windows. It looked welcoming, like home. But it didn't feel like home. It was too quiet. The armchair by the fireplace was empty. It felt like there was a gigantic hole in the room, something was clearly missing. Some _one_ was missing.

John swallowed the knot in his throat and tried to ignore that stupid feeling. He hadn't cried once since Sherlock's death and didn't want to start with it. He went into his room, threw his old bag on the bed and packed all the clothes in it he owned. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't stand being alone in 221B. Out on the street he got into the first taxi he saw and went to a hotel. It would take him a little time to find a new flat, but he wouldn't stay in the old one for only one hour more.

The hotel was a nice old one not far away from Baker Street, but he could avoid it if he wanted to. His room was small, with a single bed and a narrow wardrobe, and an almost hidden door to a bathroom. John let himself fall on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He forced himself to breathe deep and steadily, calming down to an almost okay feeling. This was so ridiculous. He wouldn't have thought he'd ever run away from his feelings like this, it simply wasn't him. But it hurt so much. He also never believed thoughts alone could be painful, but here he was. The tears came with the night, and John didn't try to hold them back this time.

 

It took him a week to go to the cemetery again. It was still hard, but not as impossible as in the beginning. Now he had even the confidence to say he was okay again, what, of course, he wasn't. But it was easier to pretend it. He would just fake a smile and go on with his life, the way he did after he returned from Afghanistan, where he had also lost not only one person he had cared a lot about. The only problem was that Sherlock had been so much more than that.

There were some flowers around the grave stone, yellow roses, white tulips and some carnations, and John wondered who the hell would have left flowers on Sherlock's grave. He knew too well that Mrs. Hudson didn't think much of dropping off these kinds of flowers without a vase, and there weren't so many people left who didn't wish they had killed Sherlock themselves. Actually the only ones left were probably Lestrade and Mycroft, but none of them was the type of person for this.

The confusion even grew when suddenly a strange man stood next to John. He was almost as tall as Sherlock had been, wore a blue suit and a red tie under an old brown coat and looked at the black stone as if he'd start an entire speech about being sorry or something people do on graveyards every second. When the stranger noticed John's confused look, he barely turned towards him. "I know this is such a great loss for you" he said, sounding more credible than any of the "I'm so sorry for you"s John had gotten from his "friends".

"Yes indeed it is... Who are you again?"

The other man took a deep breath. "Listen. This is a little complicated, I don't even expect you to understand it-"

"I'm not stupid." John interjected offendedly.

"I know you're not, Doctor Watson." The stranger scanned John's face with his eyes and continued, "And this will take a little time for you to process. It always does." Then his expression became dead serious. "I'm the Doctor. A Timelord. I've known your friend his entire life and I am here because he's got a message for you."

He made a break. The silence was everything but comfortable. John crossed his arms and tried not to scream at the other man that he didn't believe him, actually the truth was that he didn't know if he believed him. He cleared his throat and made a little step back and forth again. "A Timelord? You mean you can travel in time?"

The Doctor nodded.

"Then what do you mean when you say you knew him _his entire life_ ?" He noticed he sounded much more angry than he intended to, but it was clearly understandable to be. He had never seen this man before. He had every right to doubt the truth of his words.

"That is another thing... very complicated. What about you get his message first? I think you'll have it easier trusting me after." John doubted that as well, but he followed the other man.

It was a box. A wooden police box right on the graveyard, bright blue and not the slightest bit inconspicuous. John wondered why he'd never seen it before. The Doctor opened the door and stepped in. John considered just turning around and leaving, who knew what kind of message this crazy man was hiding in there. At the same time he was curious, and that won when he stepped in and his mouth fell open. It was gigantic.

"Don't overreact please, I've had a lot of fainting and freaking out in here." The Doctor stood in the middle of the room on a console with lots of knobs and levers. He pressed some of them concentrated, then turned to John with a little smirk. "Try explaining that to the police." John still didn't really know what was going on, but just a split second later it hit him. He was standing in an actual time machine. In a time machine that looked like a police box on the outside and like a fucking spaceship on the inside. A _time machine_. A time machine that actually looked like it worked.

He had some trouble processing what he was seeing, so John didn't notice what the Doctor was doing. The next thing he knew was that suddenly Sherlock stood right next to the console, looking just like John remembered him. It was quite a shock. John took a few steps towards him, went up the stairs. If it was possible, his heart might have missed a beat. The Doctor watched him. "This is a hologram. It's him, but he's not actually here."

"Yeah, I guess I know how holograms work" John snapped harsher than he intended to be. Despite his statement he reached for Sherlock and directly through his chest. Sherlock blinked nervously. "Can he see me?" John's voice almost broke.

"As a hologram as well, yes."

John nodded. "Can you hear me?" he asked now Sherlock's image.

"Yes." The deep familiar voice made John almost cry. How long had it been he'd heard it? Wait. What did it mean, It _is_ him, but he is not here?

"Hold on a moment" John swallowed the knot that was growing in his throat, "You are _alive_? Why is he alive?! _How_?!" His look switched from Sherlock to the Doctor faster than his brain could process the change, so he closed his eyes and covered it with his hand to calm down a little.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock whispered. John wasn't actually angry at all, much more he was hurt because his best friend had made him believe he was dead. Gone forever. John's look met Sherlock's. They just stood there like this, John became slowly aware that he should be happy. It wasn't over. This, how it turned out, was - the Doctor caught the other men's attention by clearing his throat. "The connection isn't very strong, so maybe you come to the point now, Sherlock." He shot the hologram a warning look and leaned back against the console.

Sherlock sighed. "John." He enunciated the word like something very precious.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am. I truly am, John, and I would say it as often as you want me to, but apparently we don't have much time." Another sigh.

"I'm trying to shut down Moriarty's network and, as much as I'd want you with me, I can't bring you in this danger."

John took a sharp breath to interrupt Sherlock. He was a bloody army doctor, a soldier - what kind of danger was it supposed to be Sherlock thought was too much for John?! He pressed his lips together and glared at the hologram to express his anger instead. Sherlock just continued.

"It will probably take a while. A long while, maybe even a year. But I will come back, John. I promise."

"Oh yeah? If it is so fucking dangerous, how do you want to assure you're not getting yourself killed?" John hated how worried he sounded, how pleading. He sounded like a clingy boyfriend and he didn't like it. He could see Sherlock's mouth form a little smile.

"You just have to trust me." Sherlock wouldn't trust himself here, John could hear it in his voice.

The hologram cracked for a moment, then it was back seemingly okay, but Sherlock must have seen it too. He looked shocked and worried, like he had so much to say and suddenly no time anymore. The Doctor jumped around the console, pressing buttons and pulling levers. "What's happening?" John trembled. 

"John..." He caught Sherlock's look, Sherlock's eyes sadder than John had ever seen them before, and in the next moment the connection broke.

John stared at the point where his friend had been standing just seconds ago. He didn't know if he was in shock or anything else, actually he felt rather numb. He realized his hands were clenched into fists and relaxed them. What now? One year could either fly by or be the longes time he ever waited for somthing. But it was Sherlock. He wasn't dead, he was alive, he promised to come back. John looked over to the Doctor.

"You said you know him for his entire life. Is he going to keep his promise?" he asked.

"Yes."

John nodded, like to convince himself more. He thanked the Doctor and stepped slowly out of the Tardis. Outside he took a deep breath. That day was the strangest he ever had, he knew that for sure, but somehow it was also the best. You don't have your best friend coming back from death every day. After that, John moved back into 221B - or, since he didn't actually move out with his entire stuff, he stayed.

_Two years later_

John led the woman to her door and gave her a polite handshake. He knew he wouldn't see her again, but why being unnecessarily rude? Without any look back he walked home. He wondered if maybe this was the day he'd finally see Sherlock again, but his hope was almost gone. About one and a half year after the weird day with the time-traveller he couldn't sleep properly anymore, because his brain just wouldn't shut up. The Doctor had said Sherlock would keep his promise, so he was going to come back, but when? The year Sherlock had supposed he would need for the case had passed. Twice.

When he went up the stairs, John almost jumped at the familiar sound of the violin in the living room. He took the last couple stairs running, pushed the door open and suddenly his movements froze. The tall, dark haired man at the window looked so painfully familiar and strange at the same time, John didn't know what to do. How to react. Because he was back at last. He was back home.

Sherlock turned around and lowered his violin and bow on his armchair. He wore a suit that looked new, not one wrinkle on the smooth fabric. He smiled shyly, his eyes locked with John's as if they would lose each other if just one of them looked away. John's brain didn't even function anymore, so he didn't know how he got suddenly so close to Sherlock, maybe one foot between them, resting his hand on the detective's shoulder. He wasn't a hologram, he was real. John pulled him into a tight hug, covering his face in Sherlock's shoulder and neck. He breathed in his smell, unbelievably happy and relieved and glad.

"John..." Sherlock tried to say something, but John cut his words off. "There's no way I'm letting you go again you idiot." he said, hearing the smile in his own voice. That silenced Sherlock, who tightened the hug.

"I know."


End file.
